Survival By Stockholm Syndrome
by opaque-mate
Summary: In a muddled escape, Beth was taken. Though she knows Daryl is probably looking for her, she is left to deal with her captor - and face a new horrific reality: independence.
1. Chapter 1

It stank.

Not that it mattered, much. Everything stunk since it happened. The scent of rotting flesh hung in the air - even outside where the trees were in charge. But here it stank more. Because there was a corpse left to rot, still slumped against the wall with a bullet in its brain. She could barely stand it. She knew she was in a basement. She recognized the way light filtered through a window high on the wall - ground level. She just wished she didn't have to share her space with corpses. She wished the window itself wasn't smeared with blood that was now an ugly brown.

She'd been left a bottle of water but she hadn't opened it. Hadn't even checked to see if it was a new bottle, or one that had been refilled. She didn't want to know. She didn't want to be here at all. Instead she sat against the wall, propped up on a dingy couch cushion that had been thrown into the floor. The bottle of water bothered her. She hated that stupid bottle of water. It represented him in her mind. Clean and sparkling and a fucking trap.

She glared at it as she pouted. She'd already scoured the space for something to use as a weapon. There wasn't anything. And the make-shift cage that was made of razor-wire nailed into the wall was enough encouragement for Beth to sit still. She wondered if other girls had come down to this basement. How long they had stayed. How long they had lasted. Her mind spun for hours, and she remembered the movies she would watch. About murderers who tortured their victims. Or kid-nappers who tried to make their victims fall in love with them. What was it called? Stalkam syndrome? She couldn't remember. Facts like that weren't really important now. The point was that the basement smelled like death.

But under that - horrifyingly under that - was the smell of antiseptic. Of amonia or bleach or both. And in this world of dirt and grime and decay - that scent scared her the most. A walker? She could've handled a walker or two. Hell, even someone just a little crazy after everything would have been better than the quiet man who had hauled her out of the grass and into the trunk of his car. He was dressed for church. In a gray suit and sleek shoes. He wore glasses that seemed too thick. And he wore make-up, she had realized, when she noticed a smear of it on her arm.

She had struggled but she hadn't screamed. Screaming was a danger, though she had hoped Daryl would see. Fire an arrow into the man's back as he subdued her. But she was past that. Her only hope was to escape. Or to have Daryl fly through the front door with his cross-bow at the ready. She knew everything at the funeral home had been a trap. She was worried about how much they had been watching. How many there were. She'd only seen the one. But that didn't mean anything. That didn't mean a damn thing.

Her eyes were wide as the sun went down again. But still she didn't sleep. And finally she heard a door open, and steps leading down. Why did he wait until night time? Hopefully she wouldn't ever know.

"What's your name?" he asked. He had a voice like smooth cream. It was light enough to have been a singer - but still rich. Still strong, though the mild lilt did it justice.

"Let me go," she demanded.

"What's your name?" he repeated. It was then that she noticed what he carried. A bucket.

"Let me go," she demanded. She didn't know what else to do. Because she didn't care who he was or why he had her. She just want out. And she was afraid to ask why he took her.

"What's your name?" he asked again. He shouted it this time. She jumped. And didn't speak. He heaved the bucket, and water landed on her. A shock. She yelped. And then he laughed. A sighing, exasperated laugh. She felt as though he were smiling. "One more time," he said. "What's your name?" She shook. The chill in the room was already more noticeable. And the water had been cold. Well-water.

"Please," she said. Wondering if his sympathies were the way to go. "Please. Let me go!"

"Fine!" he shouted now. "I don't need a name. I'll invent one for you. Your eulogy should be about you, though. You'll have to tell me something. But I'm going to sleep. You just think about what's important to you. You just think about it. And I'll think up a name." He hurried up the stairs.

She stared blankly after him, a shiver running through her. Eulogy. Eulogy? But she wasn't dead! She wasn't dead.


	2. Chapter 2

For hours she still didn't sleep. He had said the word eulogy. What kind of psycho had her? What kind of man tells a living girl that he's getting ready to write her eulogy? She shivered, wet and stubborn, throughout the night. When he came back after the sun had risen he found her only mildly damp but still cold. She could see him now, with whispy white hair combed across his head. He asked her the same question again. But this time she didn't demand to be let go.

"Are you -" she hesitated, bolstering herself. "Are you the one who prepared those people?"

"What?" he returned. "Who put make-up on them. And made them nice-looking. Was it you?"

"Ah, you've seen my work?" She nodded. "It's kind of... beautiful," she said. She had decided in the night, as she shivered and tried not to cry, that she would try to get to know the man who held her. Though remembering the word she'd pressed upon Daryl made her hate herself. It wasn't beautiful, she knew now. It was deranged.

"Beautiful?" he repeated.

"Well, yeah! I mean." She shifted to her feet, gingerly. "You care, you know. Most people don't anymore. They can't focus on what people were when they were alive. But you care. You take the time to do something about it. That's beautiful! I think that's beautiful."

"I'm glad you think so," he said. His eyes hadn't lit up the way she hoped, but he was looking at her eyes, now. Instead of just her face. She smiled at him. She didn't know if she could be charming or not. But she had to try something.

"Do you have others? Anyone here?" she asked, her eyes darting hopefully toward the stairs. She focused on avoiding the sight of the corpse. She wondered why he'd left it there. A warning? A regret?

"I do." He hesitated a moment. Glancing fearfully at the steps.

"Could I - " Here was an intentional hitch. Let him think she was afraid! "Could I see them?" Standing was annoying her ankle, though. She'd been able to ignore it as she sat in her trance. But now, with blood flow and pressure, it was beginning to object painfully. He didn't notice how she carefully angled the foot, however. He was just thinking.

"Well," he said. "What's your name?" She knew he would ask. What could be done? Should she give a fake name? Was there any chance he would advertise her funeral - that was his plan, right? A eulogy had to have a funeral. Could there be harm in giving him the truth?

"I'm Beth." He smiled. His teeth were whiter than they should have been, though not all in a smooth line. And though she smiled back, fear curled painfully in her gut.

"Ah, Beth. I'm Mr. Macon."

"It's nice to meet you," she returned. He was thinking. That's all she knew. "I don't have to see them," she said, wondering if she had pushed too much too soon. "I just like what you do, you know. I'm sorry."

"No, no. Beth, I'm sorry for my lack of consideration. Let me get you some food." He scurried away, stomping up the stairs this time. Excited. She knew what he thought, now. That he had a new pet. She looked down at the couch cushion. It was still a bit moist. But she didn't want to sit. She wanted out. She wanted to at least be able to see the daylight, instead of this musty filtered version. She heard him on the stairs again, and fixed a smile back onto her face. "You can come upstairs," he said. Her heart soared. "But you're not allowed to leave. The doors are bolted and I have the only key. And, I'll only let you come upstairs, if you agree to stay."

"Of course I'll stay," she promised immediately. "Where else would I go?" She thought of Daryl. Maybe if she could just see the road she could leave a sign for him. He could track. How do you track a car, though? Could he even have followed them? She refused to focus on the possibility of him being lost to her. She could only think of him, somewhere out there, watching for her. As Mr. Macon fussed with the wires that were her prison, she leaned against the wall. Only when he began to lead her upstairs did he notice her ankle.

"You're injured," he said.

"Only a little," she returned. She still didn't know how to handle him. He liked flattery. But whether he preferred her scared or strong she couldn't tell.

"I'll look at it for you. What happened?" She didn't want to tell him it happened in an animal trap. She already blamed him for that, anyway. He probably set the trap himself.

"I got it stuck a couple of days ago. A rock and a hard place, you know." It objected painfully as they reached the landing, and she squinted against the sparkling house. It was all white, with most of the windows boarded up - but still, the top pane was mostly visible, and allowed direct sunlight to come in.

"If you take a seat I'll look at it." She perched on one of the kitchen chairs, and he knelt before her. She allowed herself to think of Daryl again, how he'd wrapped her leg the first time. And carted her around the house. She would have smiled, it she wasn't looking down at the balding head of Mr. Macon. Of this mad man. She winced a bit as he eased her shoe off, and she saw how swollen her ankle was, now. Bruised purple and brown. No wonder it was hurting.

"I'll be right back." He straightened. "Don't move," he ordered. He touched his jacket pocket before stepping from the room. So that's where the key is, she acknowledged. She looked around, craning her neck to try to peer through the panels on the window. She could see the indication of greenery but that didn't help her any. She would have to see outside soon - if she had any hope of escaping. When he returned he carried a roll of heavy gauze and a photo album. "This," he began, gently handing her the thick book, "is all the pictures of the people I've helped." She opened the first page and found an old-looking photograph. It was a woman with silver hair, laying serenely in a coffin. Her cheeks were rosy, but her skin drooped. The next photo was a child, dusted carefully in an effort to preserve his youth. Beth nearly cried. Mr. Macon knelt again, wrapping her foot.

"These are beautiful," she declared. That word could be the key. Beautiful.

"Do you have a favorite?" he asked. She continued to peruse before stopping on a page near the center of the book. It was a man with gray hair and tanned skin. A farmer, she felt certain. A man of honor.

"This one," she said, turning the book for him.

"Ah. Henry. He was a good man. Left behind some children who loved him dearly." She didn't catch herself in time. Her emotions flowed into her face as intensely as they flooded her stomach. Her dad was gone. And suddenly she missed her sister all the more. She thought of how Maggie would be feeling. Maggie still had Glenn, though. Or at least Beth hoped it. "Are you okay?" Mr. Macon asked suddenly. She jolted, her cornflower eyes focusing on him again. She nodded, glancing away. "You've lost people," he said knowingly. She nearly rolled her eyes. Of course she'd lost people. She merely nodded, however. "So have I." He took the book from her, turning pages. "This is Maribel. She was my wife." What promised to be a stout woman was captured in the photograph. Though the craftsmanship was delicate, it was clear that the woman had died from a trauma, rather than disease or natural causes. "She was bitten," he said mournfully. "And she knew what it would do to her. She tried to run from here, but I found her." He touched the photograph, at her ear. "I had to stop her," he said. "And I had to lay her to rest."

"I'm sure she would have appreciated it." She took the opportunity to lay her hand on his, and smile into his dull eyes. "I'm sure she was thankful." He nodded. "And she looks beautiful, here. So calm and at peace." He looked down at her hand as she withdrew it.

"Well, Miss Beth. Would you like a bath?" He stood suddenly. "I don't have running water, of course. But in the back room here there's a pump from the well. It won't be warm, but it will be clean enough." She thought of how thankful she would be for the luxury of clean skin, but nearly declined because of who was offering. "I won't really take no for an answer," he added. "If you want to sleep on a bed, you'd better clean up. I have some clothes that will probably fit you."

"Alright," she agreed. "It's been a while since I've felt clean." Maybe it wouldn't be too bad, she thought. Maybe she could get out right now in this "back room". And if not, she'd clean up a little and then take down the man as soon as possible. She wished she could come up with a good plan. She just wished she were stronger. He helped her up, and led her down a short hall and through a wooden door. It was a mud room, she realized. That had once just been walled by mesh screens. It was now paneled with big sheets of wood, and in one spot a door had been nailed into place. There was no exit she could have escaped through, that wouldn't have required a lot of noise and a lot of strength. But he left her, after showing her how to work the pump, and mumbled something about finding clothes for her. That was she first thing she washed. Her grimy jeans and now-grimy shirt. The bra Carol had helped her alter, though it was nearly useless now. Even her ugly socks. She rubbed the dirt and blood out as much as possible, and then stretched them under the water. The meager chore was oddly relaxing, and allowed her body to remember its exhaustion. There was a tap on the door.

"Are you done?" he asked.

"Not yet," she replied, praying he didn't try to open the door.

"I have some clothes here that might fit you," he said. "I'll just leave them here in the hall. I'll be in the kitchen, fixing a bit of food for us." She still wasn't positive that they were completely alone, but she was beginning to hope he didn't have anyone else. It would be easier for her, she knew. If there was no one left hurting when he was gone. She thought hard as she washed herself, fighting off shivers in the cool water. It splashed lamely on the cement, but dripped down toward the edge of the plot. As she rinsed through her hair, finally seeing the blonde it was meant to be, she looked at herself. Even in the current state of things she'd been sheltered. But now, her body seemed tougher. Leaner and stronger than she would have imagined just a few years ago. She couldn't help but think, however, that it wasn't strong enough. She'd been taken. She'd been forced to leave Daryl behind. She worried for him as much as she worried for herself.  
She crouched, and used one of her socks to scrub at her skin. She wrapped her hair up - longer now than it had ever been - into a self-sustaining bun. Then she edged toward the door. He'd brought her a towel, and a dress. As she rough-dried herself, she eyed the dress. It was a gaudy red, but she didn't entirely understand it. It fit a little big, but covered her well enough. But why on Earth would she want to wear a dress with walkers everywhere. She couldn't make a much better decision, however. Her clothes were wet now. She scoffed at herself. What an idiot. She buttoned the dress at the back of the neck, and left the curious scarf-like appendages to hang against the fabric that covered her chest. What an odd dress. She walked to the boarded up windows then, and peered through whatever cracks there were. Still, all she could see were trees. She could only pray that the front of the house faced a road. One she could soon follow to Daryl. Surrendering her perusal of the outside, she walked from the dim room into the kitchen. She had re-wrapped her own ankle, but the bandage was sliding down a bit. Mr. Macon was at the counter, spooning peanut-butter and old cereal into a bowl. She hesitated by the wall.  
"Oh, no, no," Mr. Macon muttered, as he placed the bowls on the table. "You don't appreciate the dress, yet." He reached up - and though she flinched he didn't hesitate, merely tied the dress's accent into a frothy bow. He linger, however, and allowed the back of his knuckled to brush her cheek. She stood stock still and looked away. One more second, she thought, one more second and you'll be on the ground struggling for your life. It was a dangerous type of fear she felt now. Feminine. She didn't like it, and worse, it wasn't the kind of fear she was used to.


	3. Chapter 3

Beth stood amidst the leaves, watching the sky blow in heavier clouds. There was a fire behind her. A symbol, she knew, of her rebellion. Her distaste for the world. But also a tangible representation of her hope. Her faith burned brightly as she felt the wind, her ears eternally pricked for the sound of walkers. But the only sound she heard was ragged breathing, breaching the lungs of her travel partner. Daryl stood beside her, quiet as usual, and observant. They began to walk and suddenly there was a horde of the unead upon them. They ran and she fell, but was at once dragged up again. He dragged her, and though she felt her legs moving she could only hear one thing. A sentence over and over again. Faith didn't do a damn thing for her father. It sounded so barbaric, but as they collapsed under the weight of the walkers, she saw Daryl's arms ripped from him and at once the image of her father, bloody and limp, appeared before her. She cried out. A scream that tangled on her pillow.

She jolted to her senses, looking around herself. Her breath came quick and short as she tried to calm it. There were no walkers. There was no one. She looked at the covered window that revealed the nature of the morning's sun. A promising pink which at once Beth resented. How dare the sun be so serene when her situation was so dire? She pushed herself from the bed and stepped to the window.

Last night Mr. Macon had locked her into this room before the sun had set. She had scrounged around the room seeking something - anything - useful. She had found a lamp, with a wire still attached. Though she didn't know yet what she would do with it, she'd pulled the wire loose and wrapped it around her waist beneath her dress. She'd also found a couple of paper clips and she tucked them into the wire. It was difficult to separate the plug from the cord, but once she had, she'd hidden the plug under the mattress before sleeping on it. She didn't know a better way to hide it.

The adrenaline that had kept her awake for more than thirty hours had worn off, though she still functioned now in a state of terror Mr. Macon had not harmed her. Yet. Nor had he mentioned the word eulogy to her, again. Maybe - just maybe - the amount of psycho she'd gotten from him wasn't as bad as she thought. Maybe he was just lonely, in this ugly world. She could deal with that, right? And talk him into letting her go. In the couple of hours that followed she could hear Mr. Macon moving around the house. She focused on trying to loosen the boards nailed up onto the windows. One of the windows was boarded on the outside, not on the inside. That was the one she would tamper with. She had lifted the window just a bit, and begun to pry the board on the outside slowly. She knew she had to be quiet - for the walkers outside, and for Mr. Macon.

Suddenly she heard him at her door, fiddling with the key. She pushed the curtain into place and flopped onto the bed. She sprawled out, the curtain and the length of her dress settling into place as the door opened. She turned her head, and sat up - trying to look startled but inconspicuous. He greeted her with a bland smile.

"How did you sleep?"

"Pretty good," she replied. "Listen, Mr. Macon." He looked at her. "I have friends who are out there. I was looking for them when you found me. I feel like I need to find them." She tried to keep it simple. Not be too forceful - not make him feel threatened. But he was immediately irritated.

"And what do you want me to do about that?" he asked. He closed the door behind himself.

"Well - have you seen any people?" she asked. He shook his head, mouthing the words _just you_. She considered how to proceed, and fiddled with the fabric of the dress. "I'm just really worried about them." She looked up at him from the bed, allowing tears to form in her eyes - forcing her voice to become thick with emotion.

"Oh, Beth," he said. He sat on the edge of the bed. "There's no way to know if they're even alive. That's why I took you."

"Why?"

"So you wouldn't turn into one of them. So you would end up without a grave. Without someone to remember your story. So many lost souls," Mr. Macon despaired. "So many people have been lost to this." He gestured widely, and placed his hand on her knee. She glared at it, but he didn't notice. "I couldn't imagine someone so young and beautiful being lost to this. I couldn't stand it." She nodded, shifting her weight. Withdrawing from him. He noticed that, however and abruptly grew colder. He stood, and opened the door. "Come with me," he ordered. She started to object, fling the lamp at him and try to run - but knew she couldn't take him. Her ankle was a nuisance. So she followed him, slowly.

He led her down the stairs and into the living room. She could see the front door. Carefully, she avoided the sight of it. Instead, eyeing Mr. Macon for a clue to the location of the key. He gestured for her to sit. She did, nearest the front windows. He stepped to the davenport, an brought out a bottle of liquor and two little glasses.

"Do you drink?" he asked. She shook her head. Her second taste of alcohol would certainly not be in captivity. "How old are you?" he asked, placing one of the glasses back inside the case. She didn't know whether or not to lie to him. Again, as with her name, she didn't know if it would matter.

"Seventeen," she told him. She watched him take a drink.

"Here's the thing, Beth. I think people should still have funerals and memorials and people who care. So I'm going to ask you some questions about yourself." She didn't speak. She waited for him to continue - still thinking furiously about the best way to find her way out. She'd made an unfortunate decision yesterday in washing her clothes. They were probably dry by now - but still in that back room. Still unavailable. Her bare feet weren't very helpful either, though the one that was wrapped still seemed okay. It hadn't fallen off or anything. That was a good sign.

"Do you have any family?" he asked. She locked eyes with him and nodded. She thought of Maggie, somewhere out in the world. Then of Daryl. Of Judith and of Glenn. She remembered Carl, his eyes usually intense. Rick's always full of sorrow. She wanted to smile when she thought of Carol and of Michonne. But then her mind stuck to that image of her father. It was dangerous to mourn. To dwell. The way she'd lost her mother was horrific as well. When would it end? "Who?"

"I have a sister," she stated.

"What's her name? I assume she's still alive?" He took a deep drink from his glass.

"Maggie. And yeah. She's still alive," she replied fervently. Forcefully. Of course Maggie was alive. She couldn't think about the alternative. Mr. Macon asked a few more questions. Her birthday and her favorite color. Silly things like her favorite ice cream flavor and if she had a favorite flower. Even Beth was exasperated with his neglect of the situation outside. Why - How could he focus on the stupid tidbits. People were being eaten. Just as she was going to stand there was a loud crack outside. They both jolted, and rushed to the cracks in the window. She could see a road, she knew now. The front of the house faced a road! But a tree had fallen. And it wasn't long before they both heard the moan of walkers drawing near.


	4. Chapter 4

Mr. Macon edged to the door. Fiddling in his back pocket this time for the key. It wasn't a natural lock, it was a pad lock nailed into the door and its frame. He inched open the door. And just as he started to step out, he leaned back in.

"Stay here." He commanded. She watched him step out, and for a moment considered running out after him. She watched him through the window, however, and saw him pick up a long-nosed rifle. Maybe he'll get attacked, she thought. Maybe I won't have to deal with him anymore at all. And though she felt a hint of guilt at the thought, when a walker drew near him she almost cheered. That was the first bullet he fired.

"What an idiot," she murmured. Guns were a risk. Silence was the safest course. Seizing her opportunity, however she scurried to the kitchen. There was a nice set of knives on the counter - but she needed something he wouldn't miss. She wanted to escape, not to fight with him. She didn't want to kill him. She opened drawer after drawer and eventually found a parring knife and a thick steak knife that probably wouldn't be missed. They were mixed in with other utensils. She slid the steak knife into the wire at her waist - still hidden by the dress. If she was careful with her movements he wouldn't notice. She ran to that back room where she had bathed and found her shoes and her grimy socks. She put them and the jeans on, still under the dress, and hid the parring knife in the back pocket of her jeans. He would notice that change, she knew. But if she made it sound like she just wanted to help him - maybe he wouldn't cause a fuss.

She hurried to the front door now. And heard another gunshot. He had three around him, now. Closing in. His escape was blocked by the tree that had fallen. She opened the front door but he didn't notice. She looked around for the car she'd been brought here in. This was her chance! She ran to it - hearing another gunshot. Then she heard him shout. She turned, terrified suddenly, that he had seen her. He had. And now he swung the butt of the gun at the walkers around him. She leapt into the car, attempting to hot-wire it but found a metal plate blocking her path. She turned around, he was still struggling with one.

She knew she had to get to Daryl. She had to get out of here. She wasn't going to be just another dead girl.

Another shot rang in the air, and Beth was stunned to find that he had shot at her. Thankfull he'd missed - by a hair. It hit the top of the car. And she hit the ground. She panicked as she hurried around to the back of the house. And stopped short when she was face with a horrifying sight. There was a small herd of walkers coming up the field, between the trees. A natural migration, she knew, but spurred on by the sound of Mr. Macon's gun. She continued to run around the house, but Mr. Macon had expected it. She ran straight into him, and he caught her, trapping her in his arms with the help of his rifle. Now she screamed. With all of the strength from her stomach and her lungs she screamed. The walkers took notice, inching toward them as they struggled. She stomped hard on his foot, kicking away trying to break his grip. She succeeded. Finally, she raced toward the front of the house, though she could hear him tearing after her. The sun was bright, and few clouds hindered the brilliant blue of the sky.

Still, she ran. Speeding toward the road. She heard a shot ring out, and she instinctively ducked her head. But it was just a few heated moments before she was torn to the ground. Mr. Macon tackled her. Though more than a dozen walkers were in the yard with them, he wrestled her to the ground. She didn't have the breath to shout, and she huffed as she forced her leg up between them, forcing him off of her. She crawled and stumbled back to her feet just to be dragged down again. This time as they fought a walker took hold of Mr. Macon, and she took her opportunity to sprint toward the open road again. She dodged though the gaping arms of a walker, skirting the reach of another and was surprised when Mr. Macon was upon her again. She struggled, and this time a difficult scream made its way through her lips. It wasn't his assault that caused it, however, one of the knifes she'd hidden had dug its tip into her flesh. As her eyes blurred with the shock of the pain, she threw her hand up toward Mr. Macon's face. He grunted at the impact, and rared back.

She took the opportunity, throwing her hand up to his chin. She heard his teeth collide, and he grunted again. She wriggled and whirled and struggled out from beneath him - he took hold of the length of her dress but a zombie got to him. He let go of her in an effort to reach his gun but it was too late. She ran, minding the blade in her hip, pulling up the dress to get it out. What was she supposed to do now? The house was gone. She looked back, seeing a walker following her - but several on Mr. Macon. She might try to come back in a few days - but right now she needed to do something else. Right now she needed to run. She hustled for hours, making her way into the trees across the road. She came across an abandoned camp. String already tied up with noise-makers ready. Something they'd all learned at the prison. Something Daryl always reminded her to do. Something Maggie would do. Maybe they were out here, she felt herself hoping. Maybe Maggie and Glenn were nearby. She shook her head, a small waste of energy, but it was impossible. And even if it was them... they were clearly gone now. They wouldn't leave a camp like this unless they had to. They wouldn't. She scavenged a bit, found an old can of pears, and wrestled with it until she formed a hole big enough to pull them through. She ate, and then she tore down the dress she wore. She made a length of rope, which she wound around her waist with the wire - now she was back to her jeans and a top that was left from the dress.

Pretty dresses were a waste out here, anyway. She didn't wait much longer, she tore down the camp and left - knowing the herd wouldn't be too far behind her. Just as the sun was beginning to set, and she was starting to decide to make camp, she could see a clearing through the trees. She marched forward, hesitant, and saw the railroad. Was it safe to follow it? She wondered. There was more coverage in the trees. But it was definitely easier going on the rail. With her foot busted she would have to be careful either way. It still objected when she put weight on it. She saw an electrical box nearby - high enough to keep her out of reach. High enough to keep anyone from seeing her. She would put some noise makers in the trees nearby, and then sleep up there for the night. No use roaming around like this, anyway.

She would get a move on in the morning.


	5. Chapter 5

The morning's sun brought a hazy mist - evident of the slight rain from the night. She'd had a rough night. Beth had shivered when the rains first began to fall and had hunkered down, shielding herself as best as she could with her meager supplies. A few walkers had straggled by, but they didn't even disturb her noise makers. It would be lucky if none of them noticed her, she knew, as she wriggled down from the electrical box she'd camped upon. With the sun refracting gaily through the dew, Beth gathered up her items and started the path. She didn't notice the faded sign on the backside of it.  
She sang softly as she walked - in a daze - injured and hungry. She looked around for signs of something she could eat; a safe berry or a rabbit. It wasn't until she came to the next rail, some seven hours later, that she saw anything with promise. There was a small building at the edge of a large over-grown field. The shed itself was close to the rail and Beth saw a large sign on it. TERMINUS, it read, THOSE WHO ARRIVE SURVIVE. She looked at it in confusion for a few moments, mouth agape. Was she hallucinating? But she could still feel her foot. She looked at the map after casting a watchful eye over the field.  
If she stayed on the rail - followed the tracks - it was far... but it was people. She didn't know whether or not to trust it. She wished her father were standing beside her. She wanted someone to look to - for guidance... someone she could rely on. She thought of her family. Of Rick. And oh, Judith. How she missed Judith. The baby's warm embrace could chase a lot of Beth's fears away. Because the best way to be brave was to have to do it for something smaller and weaker. The best way to find your strength was to have to be strong for someone else.  
She thought of Daryl - and how incomplete his lessons seemed now. He was teaching her to track, and she'd learned a lot... just... maybe not enough. She laid her head against the shed. Why? She turned and looked up at the sky, still a little glum. Why keep walking when she couldn't survive by herself. She needed people. She wasn't good on her own. Eventually her thoughts took her back to Mr. Macon. The pained look on his face as he was taken down by walkers. The terror she'd felt locked in that basement. She thought of going back. Trying for that car. It was too far, now, in her mind. Too dangerous with the walkers she'd left behind.  
Was this anything compared with when they'd had to leave the farm, though? That was the most miserable winter she'd ever struggled through. In a flare of anger she threw her head back. The pain distracted her - but it just wasn't fair! Why did the stupid Governor have to ruin the prison? Why did Mr. Macon have to take her from Daryl? Daryl was the one who'd kept them alive. He could be dead now, though, she reminded herself. So what was the point. She started talking to herself then.  
"I have to find Maggie," she mumbled. "But first, I have to find food." She looked back to the field. The way the high grass parted up toward the house, promised at least a garden. She wouldn't go into the house, she told herself. She would just try out the garden. When she got to it, however, after the thirty minutes it took her to walk up the country road, and up the path - avoiding high grass that she wouldn't be able to see a walker collapsed in - it was barren. There was one small sprig that implied there might have been a carrot or a beet, which came up empty when she pulled it up. Just a leafy plant with no substance to it. She rubbed the root over her teeth, and it tasted sour and sharp. Nothing edible. She looked at the house. And straightened her shoulders. She put down the bundle of things she carried, mostly wire and metal to make noise, and edged toward the house.  
There didn't seem to be anyone. Dead or alive or in between. She walked around before she tried the front door, it opened without any difficulty, and she tapped on the wall - then called out. There was no sound, no response, and she edged further in. Clearing one room at a time. The kitchen had been ransacked, but she saw high on a shelf a canned good. She used a chair to boost herself up, and steadied herself on the wall before reaching out.  
"Canned spinach," she said aloud. "It could be worse." She saw a jar as well and in her haste to reach the cured peaches or apricots she toppled the chair. She landed hard on her side, as the can clattered to the floor. She curled inward on instinct, taking a moment to lay still and absorb the impact. She felt okay. Bruised, maybe, but certainly not broken. She eyed the jar of preserves as she sat up - and decided to try again. She got the jar, and another small can - this time tuna - from the high shelf, and slowly lowered herself to solid ground again. She knew she had to tend to her ankle. Wrap it. The pain was getting a little overwhelming.  
But as she searched through the debris in the kitchen, coming across an actual can opener, she smiled. Little things that you missed were the best things. She ate the spinach and drank the juice, and saved the tuna and can-opener for later. The single floor home had two bedrooms, the kitchen, a bathroom and a livingroom - a hallway ran straight through the middle, with the kitchen and bathroom on one side, and the other rooms across the hall. It was a strange layout, but Beth was thankful that there weren't stairs to climb.  
Once she felt that she could secure the house for the night, she went out to retrieve her things. She'd found an old duffel bag shoved high into a closet, she packed up her things, and figured she'd set up noise-makers before dark. But she fell asleep on the bed in the smaller bedroom before she got the chance. She awoke in darkness, frightened and sweating. And then she heard movement. She glanced out the window, assuming it was a walker - and then she heard a voice.  
"Claimed!" shouted a man's voice. Her heart beat jumped, and she leapt to her feet. Hide! Run! her instinct screamed. She could hear them lumbering down the simple hallway, three - five - eight different voices, at least. She looked at the window, tugging at it - and realized it was bolted shut. There was no way out, except past the men in the hall. She had to hide. She slid to the wall, she could hear them. Shouting, scuffling, she considered the closet but knew - was so sure - they would find her there. She nearly cried out when one of them banged on the wall. She scurried to the closet, shoving her bag under the bed, and looked at the small space. There was room at the top - and what looked like an attic access. She pulled the narrow door shut, and through gritted teeth started edging herself up in the narrow space.  
Once it had been a cute trick. She would make her sister giggle, and her mother worry, as she would brace herself in doorways and make her way to the ceiling. But now it was necessary. They were going to open the door. She refused to be a prisoner again. She didn't know if they were dangerous. She didn't know why she wanted to hide so badly - but she knew she had to. She just couldn't risk it. With bated breath and an antagonizing pain in her ankle she made her way to the shelf. She couldn't quite sit, and it was awkward she managed to brace herself between the shelf and the wall, as she struggled with the panel that led to the attic. Would they think to check up there?  
It was difficult to angle her body for the opening. Painful to push herself in. Cursing in her mind, she managed to brace her ribs in the dusty opening, then her hip. She was in. She lowered the panel as quietly as she could, and then she heard what she thought was the door to the bedroom open. She lay on the panel, listening. Breathing harder than she wanted to. She didn't dare move anymore. She couldn't see anything and didn't want to make any noise. So she waited. There were at least two men in the room, she heard them talking but couldn't tell what they were saying.  
"I said claim," a man drawled loudly. Forcefully. The southern voice sounded familiar but she couldn't place it. Whether in terror or honest confusion she couldn't have said. They continued to speak to one another, and then a soft round of laughter. And then they fell quiet. So they'll be sleeping here, she thought. She would have to find a way out. She had trapped herself quite effectively - with the bedroom window and now the attic. She wept in silence throughout the night. Sleeping in short spells, and mostly listening. She wished someone was there with her - even if they had to hide. She wished Maggie would rub her back, or hold her hand. She smiled weakly when she thought of it, clenching her own hands together - before falling into a fitful slumber.


	6. Chapter 6

She'd awoken when she heard the men moving around below her. Indeed, one of them had searched the closet. He didn't think to check the attic. As they prepared to leave through the front of the house, she had shifted enough to check on her ankle. It was swollen and sore from climbing into the attic - but it didn't really hurt deep inside like it had a week ago. Things change in a week, she thought - remembering the "serious piggyback" when Daryl had realized she was injured.

But now she was alone, and the attic was wide and low, she could vaguely hear them at the front of the house - the kitchen or the livingroom - but when the front door slammed shut, she crawled to the front of the house, to watch them through the vents on the front wall. They were already in the grass, making their way toward the woods - and the railroad. She sat watching, pondering her options. Maybe she should just stay here in this house for a while. Maybe that was the safest decision. She looked back to where she'd come into the attic and made her way back to the removable panel, before noticing the back of the house also had a small vent - a good spot for a look-out. She gazed across the field and could see another house. Not hidden by trees or brush, was what appeared to be a small neighborhood. She returned to the panel in the floor.

It was awkward, but it was doable, and she managed not to hurt herself any further. She dropped to the floor for her bag and fished out her can of tuna and jar of preserves. It was a calm breakfast, simpler than most she'd had in recent days, with the help of the can opener. As she sealed the jar she looked around the house in the bright morning sun. She found a rain poncho in the larger room, but nothing else with any promise. She often forgot to check drawers and dressers, though this time she thought of it. She rummaged through. It was definitely a large man who had lived her. Round. She returned to the smaller room, going through drawers, and found clothes that might fit her.

She'd lost a good bit of weight since everything had started, though she'd never been big. Now she was more lanky and strong that just soft. There was a pair of socks, and fresh underwear - and oh, a sports bra! - but the prize of the day was the jeans she found. A little distressed looking, a little loose at the waist, but they fit across her hips perfectly. She moved in them, stretching, making sure they wouldn't restrain her if she had to run or fight. She continued to look. The socks were a blessing but shoes... new shoes, mostly boots, would have been perfect. She changed, slipping on the bra and a tan-brown shirt she'd found. Winter was coming, and though she didn't want to wear the white sweater, she took it.

She left the house just before what she thought was noon. The sun was already high but not crested, the shadows still at a small slant. She marched toward the other house - still minding the road and avoiding the high grass. This one did have a garden that could be useful. It was overgrown, and some kind of scavenging animal had eaten the majority of anything useful, but still Beth found two large cabbage plants. She struggled with one, working it out of the ground with her hands. She left it with her bag when she turned to check into the house.

Again she made a little noise, and again the house appeared to be clear. Her luck seemed to be changing. She scoured the kitchen. Jack-pot! Hidden low at the back of the under-the-sink cabinet was a small pile of cans. A small can of mushrooms confused and elated her. Two cans of beans, two refried and one barbecue style, another can of spinach, and a can of mixed vegetables. She read the label. Carrots, peas, potatoes... it must be for stew, she realized. She wished she could cook. She brought her bag in, loaded it - and then decided she was going to look into the next house before returning to it. She brought a wire, and her largest knife. She missed the pocket-knife that had been left behind in her bag. She learned to weild it. The big steak knife was awkward. Meant for cooking, not for fighting.

She left quietly, after clearing the rest of the house, stowing her things in what was once a laundry basket. Small children lived here. Toys and a rubber duck - pint-sized shirts and baby shoes. It was sad. She wondered what happened to them. Maybe they'd gotten away, somewhere. Maybe. As she walked along the road, birds flew overhead making her jump. The sun was high now, and she missed when she relished in the feel of the sun on her skin. She liked it once, when it wasn't a requirement. She kept an eye on the tree-line, and monitored the grass that was growing too high. Her ankle was sore. She would stay still for as long as possible after this. Grow moss if it meant her ankle would heal. It made her weak. Weaker.

This house was painted yellow, which had faded but hadn't peeled. There was a porch and a swing. They didn't have a garden - she was disappointed. They didn't have much else either, she realized, once she cleared and explored the house. It looked like a single man lived here, she saw an empty box for shotgun rounds and wished she could get her hands on a firearm. She saw a smear of blood on the wall, and then as she came out the back door, saw the nearly-gone corpse of a walker taken down. He'd been laying there for months if not years, rotting away in peace. He must have been one of the first to turn in this area, she thought. And taken out when he attacked someone. She continued, and saw, to her delight, a fully blooming peach tree. She ran to it, looking up. Someone had plucked many of them - but they didn't know what she knew. The juiciest sweetest ones, were the ones that fell. She didn't like not washing it, but she bit in, anyway, after wiping at it with her shirt.

She smiled into the juice - she hadn't opened the preserves but they couldn't be this good. This was delicious. Perfect. Paradise. She stowed six of them in her bag and came back for more, finishing up the first one. Then she stilled completely. No more than ten feet in front of her was a storm shelter. That meant this house had a basement, proabably. But it also probably meant there was food, or a flashlight, or something down in there. She walked over to it. The door-handle had nearly rusted through. It must have been really old when everything got started. She glanced at the sky, guessing the time. The walk was at least thirty minutes of her life, she'd been searching for maybe forty five. She had time before the sun would start to set - but that time was getting earlier and earlier.

She broke off the door handle, and called out softly. She didn't need to attract anyone else's attention. Just as she started to step down the stairs, she heard it. The groan, the ragged "breathing". She leapt back as a gnarled, decomposing face shot toward her. She slammed the door shut, a leg on it to keep it closet, but the walker was stronger than she was. It knocked it open and she backed up a few paces and saw to her horror, tiny forms walking toward her. Three of them. Children. No more than seven. Beth froze - she could hear her heart beating in her ears, and see through a haze of yellow-gold the forms of the babies coming toward her. The largest of the three, followed by the half-corpse of their mother, grabbed hold of Beth's leg. She struggled weakly. Still dull. And then she heard through the fog a bark.

Somehow it pulled her back, and she stabbed the little boy in the temple, before scrambling back. A thick but short dog bolted toward her, still barking. She ran, around the house rather than through it, with the dog yapping at her feet. Happy sounds, she realized - though she didn't trust it. The last time she'd heard a dog... well, it hadn't ended so great. She looked at it now, tawny brown with a black nose. A offered him her hand to sniff. "How ya doin, boy?" she asked softly. He wagged his tail. But she heard the groans start to round the house so she turned. She sprinted toward the other house. Her house. With the dog running behind her.

"Come on, boy," she uttered, the dog's ears pricking toward her. "Get inside." She held the door for the animal. She liked animals as a rule - but horses and dogs were her favorite. She watched through the window for a while, to see if the walkers would follow. The image of that dead child, lumering toward her ravenously, was stuck in her mind. But she had to focus. She couldn't have people coming in on her this time. She found a hammer and nails, and nailed up a board over the back door. She closed all the curtains and all the doors except to the bathroom and what she thought was the master bedroom. This must have been where those kids came from, afterall. The man died in his own back yard, maybe the parents of the kids killed him for his shelter. But one of them must have already been bitten. Because they all turned down there. She looked to her bag, and pulled out what she'd left.

The cabbage, the canned goods. She could start a fire in the shower - if she couldn't get water out of it. Sometimes there was water still in the pipes. There was only a few drops, which she caught greedily with her mouth. As she started a small fire, she sat on her haunches thinking. She left the fire low, moving past the dog who watched her, and checked into the nursery. It made her miss Judith something terrible - but she was hoping there might be some purified water in here somewhere. She found half a pint of water but was thankful for it. The brown bear on the yellow wrapper played with alphabet blocks. It was cute. She picked up the stuffed rabbit that still lay on the large crib. It was small, just a little bigger than her hand, but it was perfect for Judith. She would have a gift for her, when she found her again.


End file.
